Blanche dumped some bread crumbs into the meat loaf mixture. Taifa gave her a look as sour as month-old milk.
“What I said was that you could be in charge of your hair on three conditions: no dye, no extensions, and you pay for all your hair stuff with your own money.”
Taifa poked out her mouth. “You just want me to look like a geek. You don’t care if my friends laugh at me and talk about me and stuff.” She bit into her sandwich.
Blanche washed her hands, then squished meat loaf ingredients together and tried not to pretend it was Taifa’s tender throat between her hands. She took a deep breath.
“I ain’t even sure what a geek is, and I don’t want nobody to make fun of you, baby, including yourself, which is what you’ll be doing if you grow up to be a black woman who thinks your hair’s gotta be processed or have extensions made out of Dacron or some poor Indian woman’s sacrificial hair to be beautiful.” Blanche mentally patted herself on the back for sounding so reasonable and even-tempered. She turned the meat loaf into the pan, covered the potatoes with a bit more water, and went on.
“Look, if I had my way, every black person in the world would wear their hair in some kind of natural style instead of making themselves look foolish imitating white folks’ hair.”
“Oh, Moms! That race stuff is so old! I keep tellin’ you, it ain’t even about white people. I—”
Blanche held up her hand. “Yeah, yeah. So you say. I think it is about white folks. I think it’s about being ashamed of having nappy hair.”
“Yeah, but my girlfriends’ mothers don’t…”
Blanche felt her left nerve beginning to fray. She couldn’t seem to stop herself from reacting to this holdover from years of having Mama tell her she needed to be more like Miz Mary’s or Miz Caroline’s daughters, who’d be happy to lick the kitchen floor clean, let alone mop it, if their dear old mother even looked like she wanted the floor cleaned.
“…and Rasheeda’s mother said she’d never let Rasheeda go out with naps all over her head like some kinda…”
That did it! Blanche spun around and leaned across the table so that her face was close to Taifa’s. “Now, I’ve let you get your hair straightened. Even let you get a permanent. If that ain’t good enough for you, put a paper bag over your head and stop bugging me about it!”
Taifa looked at her as though Blanche had just invented child abuse.
Damn! She’d been doing that calm-parent thing so well there for a minute. Most of the time she remembered the cost of childhood to the child and tried to act accordingly, but it didn’t always work. Taifa twisted around in her chair so that Blanche couldn’t see her face. Blanche slammed the meat loaf into the oven and set the timer.
“I’m going to see Miz Barker,” she told Taifa. “When the timer rings, please take the meat loaf out of the oven and put on the potatoes.”
Taifa sucked her teeth hard enough to loosen a couple. “Why I got to do everything? Why can’t Malik take out the meat loaf? Why I always…”
Blah, blah, blah, Blanche mouthed behind the girl’s back. She put on her sweater and took her handbag down from its hook. She was out the door before Taifa finished complaining.
Four little girls were jumping rope across the way:
“Miss Mary Mack, Mack, Mack,
All dressed in black, black, black…”
Their voices were as light and high as birdsong. Blanche’s toes twitched with double-Dutch memory. If she wasn’t headed somewhere, she’d go ask them for a turn. She waved to Evelyn, pushing the baby’s stroller around the square. The security guard waved to them as he U-turned in the parking lot. He was another reason she felt lucky to be in Rudigere Homes. The development had hired a security company that kept a guard on the premises, or near the premises—whichever guard was on duty seemed to spend 90 percent of his time down the hill and around the corner at McDonald’s. But at least the tenants had his cell phone number if something happened.
As usual, traffic on M. L. King Boulevard was like a practice track for the Indy 500. Music loud enough to make your ears bleed was pumping out of every fourth car, usually driven by somebody who looked like he needed to be at home doing homework. A long, slow funeral procession nearly brought traffic to a walk. Cars going in the opposite direction reduced their speed as well.
“It’s the Franklin boy,” a passing man said to his companion. “It’s a damned shame, too. I don’t know what’s gotten into these kids.”
Sunlight glinted off the hood and bumper of the hearse, turning it into a silver shield that hid some poor mother’s grief. Another child killed by a child. There’d been four killings in eight weeks, as though the four boys arrested for the murders had declared open season on themselves. She knew it wasn’t permanent. Teen killings had gone way down over the last couple years. The police liked to take credit for it, but the cops couldn’t stop it alone. The children had clearly decided there was no benefit in seeing so many of their friends die. But every once in a while, there was an outbreak that reminded her there were still some teenagers using bullets to solve their differences. Of course, it was easier for them to get guns and sell drugs than it was for them to get decent educations or jobs. Now folks in D.C. were acting all surprised about the possibility that the CIA was involved in shipping drugs into black communities—like black folks hadn’t known that for years. These kids sure as hell weren’t flying the stuff into the country.
No matter who started it or who kept it going, kids killing one another frightened her like nothing else she could think of. Taifa and Malik had given her a bucketful of grief when she’d tightened their curfew and demanded that they phone her if their plans changed the slightest bit. But she’d also recognized a light of relief in their eyes. It seemed it was true about teens wanting limits, although she didn’t recall wanting any at their age. She crossed the street once the procession passed, resisting the urge to turn around and hurry home to see what her kids were up to.
She walked up the block to Miz Barker’s store. As usual, she marveled that the building was still standing. Its single gray story leaned against the house next door for support. The two steps down into the little space sagged as if they held the weight of the world. Inside, the store was dark and cool and smelled of dust, stale candy, and old paper. Miz Barker sat on her high-backed stool behind the cash register. Nothing moved but her eyes.
“Hey, Miz Barker. How you doin’ today?”
Leathery eyelids blinked slow as a sunning lizard’s.
“I can’t complain, daughter. I can’t complain.” She shifted on her stool. “Glad you doin’ what you doin’. I know you don’t care for Inez Brown.”
Blanche wasn’t surprised Miz Barker knew about her standing in for Miz Inez. Miz Barker knew everybody’s business, almost before they knew it themselves. But Ardell was the only person to whom Blanche recalled telling her feelings for Miz Inez. It was useless to ask Miz Barker how she knew what she knew. She would only stare at you as though you were a talking cockroach.
“It’s true Miz Inez ain’t exactly a favorite of mine, but…”
“Oh I know, I know,” Miz Barker said. “Family’s family And Charlotte’ s a whole lotta woman to say no to.”
How in hell could Miz B know about her conversation with Cousin Charlotte? Blanche just shook her head and smiled.
“I ain’t ever been able to warm up to Inez much myself, but I always liked that boy of hern, no matter what they say about him.”
Blanche wasn’t quite up to singing praise songs to Ray-Ray today, so she applied the lesson her kids were teaching her about not having to have an answer to every comment and said nothing. She looked around the store.
“All the mess is gone,” she said.
“Got the last of it cleared out last night. I hope them little thugs is through with me now.”
So did Blanche. Miz Barker’s store had be
en broken into and trashed three times since she’d barred a bunch of boys from her store after she’d caught one of them stealing.
“You best watch out. Them thugs’ll be hangin’ round your place now.”
“Why would they do that, Miz B?”
Miz Barker gave Blanche a pitying look. “You don’t know much, do you? Well you’ll be finding out. Ain’t my place to—”
“Miz Barker, if there’ s something I need to know about Taifa and Malik…”
“Ain’t nothing goin’ on with them two of yourn. I’d tell you if there was.”
“Then what?”
“Got that girl stayin’ with you, don’t you? What you expect? Boy still like girl, last I heard.”
“Shaquita? I doubt whether she’s fast enough for that bunch.”
“Useta give them little hoodlums candy when they was babies. Now…” Miz Barker looked so frail and disappointed, Blanche wanted to hug her—a very different urge from the one the old woman had first aroused in her.
Before Blanche bought into the cooperative, they’d lived in an apartment around the corner from Miz Barker’s store. Blanche and Miz Barker had had words after Taifa came home from the store and told Blanche what Miz Barker said about hincty negroes sending their children to private school so they’d grow up thinking they were better than other black people. Blanche had gone to the store and called Miz B on her signifying, telling her that where Malik and Taifa went to school was none of her business, unless she was planning to pay for their education.
That conversation seemed to have convinced Miz Barker that it was better for them to be friends. She’d taken Blanche and the children into her inner circle of special care, which meant she was deep in Blanche’s business and full of advice on everything from what kind of underwear Blanche should buy Taifa to the best deodorant for Malik.
Now Blanche asked for a box of toothpicks and a can of Ajax, neither of which she needed. Like many people in the neighborhood, she frequented Miz Barker’s store more to keep the store alive than out of necessity. Miz Barker was a cantankerous old woman with mostly useless stock and prices higher than the supermarkets. But her store had survived for nearly sixty years. Joanie, Blanche’s neighbor, said she and her childhood friends had made their first candy transaction here and that Miz Barker had been the adult of last resort for many a troubled child who now credited her with keeping them out of jail or worse.
While Miz Barker shuffled around collecting and bagging Blanche’s purchases, Blanche wondered what was in those dust-encrusted boxes on the very top shelves of the store. They’d been up there so long, dirt and age had combined to turn them all a uniform shade of greasy brown.
“That granddaughter of mine is come to stay, you know. Weren’t my idea.”
Blanche looked sympathetic but she wasn’t really. Somebody around the house and store was just what Miz Barker needed right now. The boys who’d been hanging in front of the store were gone for the moment, but they’d be back. Where else could they go? The recreation centers were overflowing, the basketball courts were packed, and she doubted they were involved in extracurricular stuff at school.
“She all upset ’bout these break-ins. Wants me to have a keeper, I guess. Like I ain’t got sense enough to come in out the rain. Like I’m a child.”
Blanche had met Miz Barker’s granddaughter, Pam, for the first time last year and liked her right away.
“She must love you a lot to change her life around and come stay with you for a while. Putting family first. You must be real proud of her.”
“Humph. Oughtta be findin’ a man and having babies ’stead of tryin’ to make one outta me.”
Blanche inched toward the door without replying. She’d said what she had to say. Life was too short to try to soften this tough old bird.
“Wait! I’m closin’ up right now. I’ll walk out with you.”
Now Blanche was doubly glad Pam had come to look after Miz Barker. There were neighborhood stories about Miz Barker’s independence, about how she’d refuse a ride, even when it was raining; about her turning down offers to walk her home, even in the winter when it was icy and dark by store-closing time. The break-ins had clearly frightened the old woman in a way Blanche had thought nothing could. Blanche walked her around the corner and up the block to her house.
Shaquita’s suitcase was standing at the bottom of the stairs when Blanche got home. Shaquita came in from the kitchen.
“Hey, sugar, how you doin’?”
Shaquita put her arms around Blanche. “Hi, Aunt Blanche. I’m good. How’re you?”
“Glad to see your sweet self.”
They walked arm in arm into the kitchen.
“Hey, you two.”
“Hi, Mom.” Taifa was setting the table.
Malik slipped the meat loaf out of the pan onto a platter. “Yo, Moms.”
She looked at the table, at the mashed potatoes Shaquita was working on, the warmed-up greens waiting to be dished up. Shaquita had even made the gravy. “Shaquita, honey, I can see it’s going to be a real pleasure having you around.”
Shaquita smiled in the way that always made Blanche want to squeeze her. She had a full-cheeked, pug-nosed face with something delicate about the set of her mouth that probably fooled some people into thinking she was timid.
“I don’t want you waitin’ on these two, Quita.” Blanche sliced the meat loaf. “The list of their chores is on the refrigerator. Don’t let them give you no excuses, and don’t let them leave this house till they’ve finished their chores. Same goes for homework. And just let me know if anybody gives you a hard time.” She gave Taifa and Malik a warning look.
“I’m going to pay you extra to manage these two.”
“Supervising us!” Malik and Taifa shouted in unison, temporarily united in their indignation. The similarity in their expressions highlighted how much they looked alike—red-brown, hazel-eyed images of their dead daddy with their mother’s high cheekbones.
Taifa put her hand on her hip. “I surely don’t need nobody to manage me! I can manage or—”
“You can hardly manage to get to school!” Malik hooted.
“An archaeologist. That’s what I want to be.” Shaquita said. “Too bad I have to go to college to do it. I wish I could just—”
“Phew! Digging in the dirt and touching old dead people and stuff! You must be crazy,” Taifa told her. “I’d rather be a talk-show host or a model.”
Malik hooted. “A model? With that face? Not unless they’re looking for the most funny looking—”
“You ain’t the finest thing in the world either, you know.” Taifa rolled her eyes at him.
“But just think,” Shaquita went on, “I might find the tomb of some African queen that nobody’d been in since she died.”
“Yeah,” Malik said. “It could be full of her jewels and things and the walls all covered with paintings and—”
“Yeah, but it’d still be dirty. And hot. Not for me! I want a job with air conditioning,” Taifa said.
Blanche doubted Taifa would grow up to be a talk-show host, because she liked to do all the talking, or a model, unless there was going to be a call for models with hips. But she was pretty sure that whatever the girl did, there would be air conditioning.
When Blanche left the kitchen, Malik and Taifa were arguing over whose turn it was to wash dishes. Shaquita went upstairs to unpack. Malik and Taifa knew that if the dishes weren’t done by nine, both of them would be grounded for three days—without music or phone calls, in or out. The kids had told her this was cruel and unusual punishment. Blanche thought of it as a way to get the dishes done without having her left nerve frayed to a frazzle.
When the bell rang, Blanche went to the front door prepared to say this wasn’t a good time for Malik or Taifa to have company, or, no, Taifa or Malik couldn’t come to the door right n
ow.
“Ray-Ray! Just the person I wanted to talk to. Come on in.” She stepped back from the door.
Ray-Ray looked excited and even more lively than usual. He moved around on the stoop like he was eager to start jogging or doing jumping jacks.
“No thanks, Blanche.” Ray-Ray shifted from foot to foot, flexing arm muscles that looked too big for his skin, as if a pinprick would burst his biceps like overdone sausages. “I need you to do me a favor,” he said.
“Yeah, well, I need to talk to you about this afternoon first. I really don’t appreciate you showing up on my job, your mama’s job, like some kinda cat burglar. What if somebody caught you? Miz Inez mighta got fired behind that shit!”
“Aw, c’mon, Blanche.”
“Don’t c’mon, Blanche, me ! You was wrong and you know it.” She paused to give weight to her words, then added, “Now tell me what you took.”
“No, Blanche, I don’t think that’s a good idea. You—”
“Did you take Saxe’s pictures? Or was it something else? Tell me the truth, Ray-Ray.”
He stepped back a step. “Pictures? What pictures?” He took a square, cream-colored envelope out of his jacket pocket. “Give this to Allister,” he said.
The envelope had Allister’s name printed on the front.
Blanche didn’t know why, but she didn’t want to touch it. She looked from the envelope to Ray-Ray. “Is this about what you took from the house? What’s going on, Ray-Ray? Why can’t you give him the note yourself? Or put it in the mailbox?”
He stopped jiggling and looked directly at her. “It’s just better this way. Quicker. And I don’t want to go back up there again right now. Just tell him you found it in front of the mail slot.” He held the envelope out to her. “Please.”
“Ray-Ray, what are you up to?”
He gave her a devilish smile. “You are going to love it, Blanche. Trust me. It’ll be good for everybody in Massachusetts—maybe even the country.”
Blanche Cleans Up: A Blanche White Mystery (Blanche White Mystery Series Book 3) Page 5